A Crown of Crimson-Gold
by CleotheDreamer
Summary: Draco Malfoy was many things. Brave was not one of them. OR: A short Gryffindor-Draco fic.


Draco Malfoy was a coward.

But he was not an idiot.

He was taught manners and culture, the politics behind tea and dinner parties, blood purity, and more, but the most important thing he was taught was how to be a Malfoy.

(A Malfoy never showed his true self. A Malfoy was proud. A Malfoy was powerful. A Malfoy was a Slytherin. A Malfoy was the best of the best.)

He was raised to believe that there was a right way to be and a wrong way. That half-bloods and mudbloods were no better than the scum on one's shoe and that he should never tell anyone that his father was glad to serve the Dark Lord.

But there was a prickling sensation of wrongness in these conversations that crept in like an insidious disease that he did his best to ignore and push aside. There was a sickness in his gut and a logic in his brain that screamed at him to focus on his rapidly deteriorating soul.

When he asked why the mudbloods should be treated worse than animals if they were more sentient than they, he was caned and so, he forgot about it – swept it to a dark corner of his occluded mind.

(But the feeling of a scorned sense of justice never leaves, it only fades.)

At first, he thought this feeling was boiling inside him because he was weak and so he tried and tried and tried to be like his father, but it hurt and he was scared but he wanted so badly to be brave.

But he couldn't be because he was supposed to be cunning and ambitious and a cutthroat heir fit for his namesake and blood.

(Bravery was never something to be proud of. Cowardice was much more fitting of the Malfoys and went by the name of self-preservation according to his mother.)

So, at first, he thought the people in the street cleared a path for them out of respect and turned away out of decorum. But then Harry Potter was disgusted by him and people on the train whispered, "Death Eater" with loathing dripping from their tongues like venom and he realized his whole life was a lie. People didn't like his father and they didn't respect the Malfoy name. There was no deference out of admiration, but only out of fear and bribed necessity.

People didn't like what his father believed in and he was filled with righteous fury because they couldn't know anything at all! They must have understood that the Malfoys were the best of the best and that they should have been on their knees out of respect.

But then, a thought crept into his mind as cold and slow as ice forming on the top of a pond. Was it really everyone else in the wrong? Or was it his father who was wrong? Was that sickness in his gut when faced with the Dark Arts and twisted violence normal? Was he not wrong?

Was he…normal?

(Were the squeals of the field mice his father tortured supposed to be as disconcerting as they were? Was the artificial affection of his family reliant on his table manners or his penchant for cruelty?)

But he shook his head because of course it wasn't normal and of course he was wrong because he was a proper Malfoy son and he had to be or everything would fall apart.

It didn't stop him from noticing the glares of almost every other passenger who walked by his compartment.

(He just wanted to be brave, but the only truth he knew was that he was a coward.)

He stewed in contemplative silence for the rest of the train ride and reveled in the righteous anger of Harry Potter's stinging rejection.

* * *

When he was called to be sorted he was scared.

(He wanted to be brave, he wanted to be brave, he wanted – )

He pulled himself into his Malfoy arrogance and walked confidently but he was scared because he knew – he _knew_ – that the feeling he had in his gut did not correspond with the beliefs of his patron house.

It was justice and brashness and a desire to be brave and, internally, he was not a Slytherin and he _knew_ this but he was scared and he hoped that that was enough.

The hat did not think so.

It didn't touch his head before it started to call out, "Sly –" and he hoped so strongly that it wouldn't touch his head and would just assume he was like every other Malfoy before him.

(Cold, cunning, ruthless - _scared_.)

But it cut itself off as soon as it touched his slicked-back hair.

The hat covered his eyes and he was plunged into a silent darkness that made him feel so utterly out of control that he gripped the stool with a white-knuckled grip in an attempt to ground himself.

_"Well, what do we have here?"_

"Please, please, please, you have to put me in Slytherin," he whispered, the desperation felt like pulling teeth but he hoped that his manners would appeal to it.

The hat just chuckled and he felt his stomach drop like it was as heavy as a lead ball.

Because Draco Malfoy may have been a coward, but he was not an idiot.

_"A Slytherin wouldn't have been so direct. Where is your bargaining chip? What is your angle?" _he paused and continued almost apologetically,_ "I cannot put one where they don't belong. Yes, if you did belong in two places you might be able to persuade me but there really isn't much Slytherin in you at all. And I know you don't want to be there either."_

"That's not true!" he whisper-shouted – in an attempt to convince the hat or himself he did not know.

But he knew and he was scared and he just wanted to be brave but he _knew _that he couldn't and he knew what this meant, he _knew –_

The hat laughed again and he could feel tears prickling his eyes because he was rash and he was chivalrous and he was prideful and there was a justice boiling untouched and repressed under his skin waiting for its' opportunity to explode and he just wanted to be brave and –

He knew.

And he was scared.

"I'm cunning," he pleaded, dejectedly.

"_No, you're _creative," the hat corrected, speaking as if Draco was a toddler

_"So, you could go into Ravenclaw if only for your desire for knowledge and your creativity, but I think you'd be quite bored there. And I think you already know it, don't you? You just aren't quite ready to accept what that means for you yet," _Draco shook his head in denial, _"Ah, but you could be great in the lions. There, you would learn what you want to know the most and you would flourish into a worthy friend, just as the others there would support you on your journey."_

And although he was scared and near tears those words made him pause because he'd never had a friend and he was always told that Malfoys only had allies, but he was eleven and by god, he wanted friends so badly.

But he was scared and he couldn't risk his life for friends he didn't even have yet. So, he wished for Ravenclaw because than maybe he wouldn't be burned off the tree.

But the hat had already seen his mind and made the decision for him.

So, with one fell swoop, Draco Lucius Malfoy lost all that was dear to him because of a grimy talking hat.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

* * *

The silence was deafening.

An all-encompassing air of solemnity fell over the hall until it was broken by the sudden and abrading laughter and jeers of the Slytherin table. This seemed to spur everyone else into action and, to his great surprise, the Gryffindor table burst into thunderous applause if only to combat the Slytherin's cruelty.

Still frozen in shock, it wasn't until a firm hand on his shoulder spurred him forward that he found the strength in him to move.

He walked with stilted steps forward until he fell unceremoniously into his seat as stiff as a board. The others around him shoved hands in his face to try and greet the rebel Malfoy as if his house was some choice he made to make a statement but left him alone once they noticed the state he was in.

Shock. Cold and liquid like water in his veins.

He kept his posture straight and his face closed off but he could do nothing more

He made it to his dorm before his mask broke and he cried himself to sleep because Draco Lucius Malfoy was many things, but he was not an idiot.

* * *

He received a letter with the Malfoy seal on it that morning. The wax was silver like his eyes and the paper was thick and smooth.

It felt heavy in his hands, like a promise. And, when he opened it, that was exactly what it was.

(His face on the tapestry was black, black, _black_ –

His face had burned in the fires of rejection.)

Disinheritance was permanent. It was a dark stain on his soul as charred as his face on the Family Tree and he knew he could not go back – could not come back from this.

He was only now a Malfoy by name.

He was falling. Falling into the darkness of his ash-stained self.

He decided, right then and there, that he would be the perfect student. He would be the top of his class, the prefect, the neutral leader who made teachers say, 'that boy's going somewhere'.

He would make a name for himself, and his father would learn to regret this.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was many things and one of them was brave.


End file.
